


The Morning Show With Mal and Eames

by gwa_fanfic



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, One Night Stands, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-05-26 21:20:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6256315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwa_fanfic/pseuds/gwa_fanfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is the new producer of ‘The Morning Show With Mal and Eames’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dear reader, 
> 
> be advised that the writer doesn’t have any clue how TV producing works or how an office day of a morning show producer actually looks like. I once watched ‘Morning Glory’ though. That is the extend of my TV producing knowledge. You have been warned. 
> 
> If you like what you read, make sure to **kudo, comment, bookmark or subscribe** so I know the **interest** is there to read the rest of this story.
> 
> Enjoy!

Saito told him him to meet him at the new restaurant at Wicker Square. It was an upscale place and the food was what Mal would call “manifique” and Dom a “rip off”. Arthur just called it “minimalistic”. The waitresses all looked like Barbie dolls and the bartenders complimented them as life-like Kens. Everything felt unreal, fake and an unpleasant feeling crept down Arthur’s spine as he sat and waited and sipped the water a woman with the whitest teeth Arthur had ever seen set down in front of him. Arthur expelled a breath when, finally, some life entered the room in the form of Saito and his security guards.

“I bought the channel,” Saito said as he took the chair opposite Arthur. He had always been a fan of non-sequiturs. “It seemed neater.”  
“Neater,” Arthur mocked.  
“As just an investor,” Saito said, leaning back in his seat and holding a hand over his shoulder to receive the menu. He opened it in his lap, his eyes scanning the lines. He continued, “I didn’t have the option to offer you what you want. Cobb tells me you turned down the job because you didn’t agree with some decisions my predecessor made. Now, I am giving you free reign. You can do whatever you deem important. Remodel the show. Make it the moneymaker it used to be.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. As Dominic Cobb’s protégé, and with Dom leaving the business to become a stay-at-home dad, Arthur was the most sought-after producer in town. He was very aware of that. Though, buying a whole channel as a means of headhunting seemed a bit overboard in Arthur’s books.

“And you think being able to do whatever I want is what will make me agree to your offer?”  
“I didn’t say you could do ‘whatever you want’.”  
“‘Whatever I deem important’, then. You bought the channel to accommodate me.” A hysterical bubble pushed up Arthur’s throat but he was too composed a motherfucker, at least per his reputation, to let the nervous chuckle out.

Saito’s eyes swept over Arthur’s immaculate three-piece suit. “As I understand it, you prefer for things to be tailored to your wishes, Mr. Morgan. And, I trust your competence. Cobb tells me you’re the best at what you’re doing. And I trust Cobb.”  
Arthur set down his glass he had been rolling in his hand.  
“I am assured you can bring the show back to its old ratings in no time,” Saito added.  
This was all too good to be true, and unlike Saito, Arthur didn’t trust easily. “As flattering as this is,” he said, picking an invisible lint off his shoulder. “I already have another offer.” It was a blatant lie. He wasn’t short on offers at all, but none of them were anything Arthur seriously considered. Unlike Saito’s.

Saito smirked, as if he was well aware of that. “I’ll double whatever they’re paying,” he said.  
“What if it’s not money I want.”  
“I am giving you a fortune and free reign over the show. What else could you possibly want?”  
“What if I wanted to get rid of the show hosts?”

A glimmer of bewilderment flickered over Saito’s face before the poker face was settled firmly back into place. “You want to fire Mrs. Cobb? Or Mr. Eames?”  
Arthur raised an eyebrow in answer. Saito sighed. He put the menu on the table, forgotten. “I’m a man of my word, you know that, Mr. Morgan.”

“Mal is fantastic,” Arthur said after letting Saito sweat for a little while. He sighed dramatically. He conceded, “And so is Eames. They’re not the problem.”

Saito’s lips curved wickedly. He pointed a finger at Arthur. ‘You almost had me there, Mr. Morgan.” One of the bodyguards hovering in the background stepped up to the table. He leaned down and whispered into Saito’s ear. Arthur was not able to make out what he said.

“I’m afraid I have to leave,” Saito informed Arthur as the bodyguard stepped back, Saito got up from his seat and Arthur mirrored him. They shook hands. “You have two days to get back to me.” Saito said and left without any further ado. 

When Saito was gone, Arthur ordered another drink and loosened his tie. His decision was already made, he wasn’t kidding himself there. Tomorrow morning he would call Saito’s office and take the job. Tonight he’d get drunk, because he hadn’t yet figured out how to deal with the consequences resulting from that. 

Cobb had introduced Arthur to Eames at a fundraiser only a couple of days after agreeing to take Arthur under his wing. Eames had been a flirt, and Arthur hadn’t gotten laid in months. Arthur and Eames had ended up in Arthur’s hotel room and had had a great night, involving a whole lot of of sex and sweat and banter and laughter. It had been followed by a lonely and self-loathing morning on Arthur’s part.

The next time he had seen Eames had been fourteen months later at one of Mal’s famous Christmas parties. Arthur had done his best to ignore Eames, unsuccessfully as it turned out.

Waking up alone —a second time, and still covered in spunk— in the Cobb’s guest room had been even worse than the first regrettable Morning After. Dom had insisted he stay for breakfast, and Mal had asked questions a little too intuitive for Arthur’s taste. Chugging down his coffee that morning, a horrible headache in place, he had made a decision. And he had promised himself to stick to it. 

Never again. Arthur was done with one night stands. Sex was good, enjoyable, relaxing, but the self-loathing the next morning was just not worth it.

What Arthur hated the most about all of it was that he couldn’t even fault Eames for leaving Arthur behind to wake up alone. Arthur had done nothing to deter him from the initial assumption that he was up for casual sex. Arthur’s generation had made No Strings Attached encounters the norm and Arthur had never had let onto the fact that he would expect his sexual partners to act otherwise. Far from it, in fact. 

He had been pretty easy both times. A fact which had only increased his self-contempt for the following weeks. The first time he could still blame on his dry spell, but the repeat time, he hated to think, had a lot to do with his stupid hopes that this time it would be different.  
Which, of course, turned out to not be the case.

He had done his best to ignore his inner voice mocking him for thinking the affectionate tilt of Eames’ voice as he fucked him slow and deep, telling him how gorgeous he looked, pressing his full lips against Arthur’s temple, would mean anything the next day.

After a sleepless night Arthur called Saito and officially accepted the job, but only under two conditions. He had the veto power on any decision regarding _The Morning Show With Mal and Eames_ , made by any executive up the latter, and Cobb was forbidden to set foot into the building for the first two weeks after Arthur took over. Saito laughed and accepted.

The morning of his first day, Arthur got up in the middle of the night after only two hours of fitful sleep. He decided to go on a short run and took a prolonged shower, and was in the office at four fifteen. He was the first one in the office, earning a judgemental look from the night porter who didn’t seem at all concerned to be caught watching a movie playing on his laptop instead of what was happening on the CCTV monitors.

Already acquainted with the location from the many times Cobb had him tag along and play his monkey, and the tour Saito took him on a week earlier to introduce Arthur as the new producer, he found the way to the break room easily enough and powered up the fancy coffee maker that brewed coffee that went against all laws of bad office coffee. At four thirty, Arthur was sitting at his desk, checking his social media and news feeds. He raised the mug reading ‘I can’t keep calm I’m a TV producer’ to his lips, an ironic gift from Ariadne, when the front door clicked open and silent footsteps echoed in the deserted hallway leading up to Arthur’s office.

At the knock on his door frame, Arthur looked up. It was Eames, looking far more awake than Arthur felt. “Wonderful morning, darling. Already hard at work?” Eames’s voice was still sleep rough and Arthur’s chest tightened for a moment before he crushed down on that unwanted feeling. Other than that, Eames seemed to carry wakefulness in every proud line of his atrociously clad body. “Eames,” Arthur acknowledged him, not quite meeting Eames’s eyes. He tried to get a grip on the rollercoaster ride his stomach was taking him on. “Welcome to The Morning Show,” Eames said softly, and then he was gone. It took Arthur a while to remember what he had been doing before Eames had send his mind on a spin.

Mal sashayed into the studio at five oh five just as Arthur was signing off on a delivery. She looked gorgeous like only a frenchwoman could first thing in the morning. Her fawn-colored trenchcoat wafted behind her as she strode along the hallway in six inch Louboutin’s. She pressed up to Arthur and blowed him a kiss past his left cheek, then brushed her lips along his right cheek, humming “‘allo, mon cher.”

If Arthur wasn’t one hundred percent gay, he would be irrevocably in love with the woman. It was also the reason why he cut Cobb some slack whenever the man got especially irrational. “Good morning, Mallory.”

Mal clucked her tongue. “I told you not to call me that.” She hooked her arm around his elbow and started to pull him along by the cheer power of her will. “How is your first day going? Dominic didn’t stop pouting this morning. It was hilarious, I want to thank you for that.”  
“He’ll get over it.” Arthur yawned. He did feel a little bit bad for the ban. But only a little. “I just want to assert myself as the new sheriff in town before he--”  
“I know, cheri. You don’t have to explain.” She guided him to the break room, from where she banished some interns with just a wave of her hand. She took two mugs from the shelf and put them under the coffee maker. “So, tell me, Arthur.” She pushed some buttons. Some more literally than others. “How is Eames doing this wonderful morning?”  
Arthur sunk against the counter and groaned.

“We’re up in five, four, three,…” Ariadne finished the countdown silently. Eames gently pushed the make up artist out of the picture, met Arthur’s eyes over the camera and winked. The red bulb lit up and they were on air.  
“Good Morning,” Eames said into the camera, laying the British accent on thick. On his face there was the shit-eating grin that had made him famous and also had him gotten Arthur between the sheets. Twice.  
“Mal, good morning, darling.” Eames turned around to Mal who held out her hand for Eames to kiss. It was their thing. Mal giggled softly, as she always did, then elbowed him out of the way. Mal turned to the camera and greeted their audience. “Bonjour, Eames. Good Morning, World.”  
They relaxed into easy banter and Arthur took a deep breath.

“That went pretty well, hm?” Eames said, leaning into Arthur’s office a little while later. Arthur favored him with a distracted smile and went back to checking over the guest appearance contract in front of him.  
“You guys were great,” he said, absentmindedly.  
“I can only return the compliment,” Eames said, striding into the office and plopping down in the visitor’s chair opposite Arthur.  
“Thanks? I mean, uh, thanks.” Arthur offered Eames a soft smile. They stared at each other.  
“Care to celebrate? After hours?” Eames asked after a period of watching Arthur in silence that Arthur had spent turning red behind the ears. With the question, Eames’s winning smile reappeared.

Arthur’s smile faltered in return. Eames realized his mistake. “Maybe another time,” he said. He heaved himself out of the chair and on the way out knocked on the doorframe. Arthur trained his eyes back on the legalese in front of him, seeing nothing. Then he buried his face in his palms and took a deep, deep breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Cobb showed up nine days after Arthur started as _The Morning Show_ ’s producer, and as the conniving son of a bitch that he was, he brought along the kids so all Arthur could do was heft Pippa against his hip and listen to her babble and mouth at Cobb that he was a “son of a bitch!” instead of throwing him out like he wanted to.

“The kids were missing their mom.”  
“Mal isn’t even in the studio.”  
“She isn’t? Hmmm.”  
“You’re a bad liar, Dom.”  
“And you’re a sucker for my girls. One of which is, by the way, slobbering all over your suit.”

Arthur looked down and found Pippa staring back up at him as she nibbled away on the lapel of his fifteen hundred dollar suit. Arthur grimaced and pondered how much energy it would take to become irritated by this development when Eames swooped in, out of nowhere, and took Pippa out of his arms, offering a wet cloth in return.  
“Got you, darling,” Eames breathed, all eyes for the girl that now had twisted the third grown men around her little finger in the range of a few minutes.  
“Uh, thanks,” Arthur said and began to dab away at the spit. The suit would have to be professionally cleaned anyway so Arthur threw the cloth to the side and sighed. Cobb was looking back and forth between Arthur and James, perched in his arms, and held up the baby in another attempt to distract Arthur. It was a miscalulated move. Arthur was wary of babies.

Fortunate for Cobb, Eames cooing at Pippa caught Arthur’s attention. His chest seized when Eames playbit at Pippa’s fingers and she gurgled a laugh. He pressed his eyes closed, trying to think of what he had been doing. Oh right. He turned back to Cobb who was looking at him with a hint of suspicion. Arthur straightened up and tried to look as unaffected as ever. It was too late. Cobb was already glaring over Arthur’s shoulder at the man holding his daughter.

“Cobb, what are you doing here?” Arthur asked to bring Cobb’s attention back to him.  
“Saito told me you were doing a great job and I wanted…” He trailed off.  
“You wanted to see that I do a great job but not as good a job as you’ve been doing? Sorry, I’m on a tight schedule and don’t have the time to patronize your ego.”  
“That’s not--”  
“That’s absolutely why you’re here, Cobb,” Eames interrupted him. Arthur didn’t have to turn around to know there was a condescending smile on Eames’s face.  
“It’s not!” Cobb was flabbergasted at Eames’s audacity, and Arthur had forgotten how much fun it was to watch Eames antagonize Cobb.

Cobb turned back to Arthur. “I’m sorry. The truth is, I needed…” He sighed long-sufferingly. “I needed to get out of the house, okay?! It turns out, children are very boring conversational partners.” Arthur points a finger at Cobb. “Stay away from my office,” he said. He turned around and pressed a kiss to Pippa’s temple. He caught a whiff of Eames’s cologne and his traitorous heart started beating a little harder. He couldn’t leave the room fast enough then and set out to find Ariadne. She would bask in Cobb’s presence enough to distract the guy and Arthur would not have to deal with feeling undermined by his former mentor. Or go weak-kneed at a baby-holding, amazingly smelling Brit.

Arthur’s ex, if you could categorize the guy as that, had written a book and Arthur learned about it in a brainstorming session. Ariadne suggested inviting “that young prof who wrote that book about how social media makes us all liars” to the show. Arthur perked up, because Ariadne usually had good ideas. “You’ll need to be a little more specific than that,” he said, fighting a yawn. Eames got up and walked out of the room. Arthur was too tired to protest, so he just glared at the man’s retreating back. “His name’s Ben Craversomething and-” Ariadne waggled her eyebrows. “He’s a DILF.” 

“Ah oui, Benjamin Craverford, is it? He is such an interesting man.” Arthur watched as Cobb lifted his gaze to frown at the back of Mal’s head. Mal began to smirk, handing Pippa a marker. Arthur rubbed his eyes, then froze. He watched as Eames returned with a pot of coffee and refilled Arthur’s mug. Eames had even brought two packets of sugar.

“Hold on,” Cobb said right when Arthur started to panic. “That name sounds familiar…”  
Arthur probably imagined the little lamp lighting up above Cobb’s stupid big head. Cobb looked at Arthur. “Wasn’t he the prof you were a TA for?” All eyes in the room zoomed in on Arthur. Meanwhile Arthur’s attempts to light Dom on fire through sheer force of will went, sadly, unanswered. “He wrote a book?” Arthur wheezed.

Ben had always been scrambling for every opportunity to make himself seem important. This time it just happened to be in written form. Arthur should not have been surprised at all, yet he was taken aback. He made an attempt to pull himself together before anyone noticed how thrown he was. When his eyes flicked over to Eames there was a curious look on his face. It was edged with some other emotion that Arthur couldn’t translate. He squinted at Eames’, his ex forgotten for only a second before his eye started twitching. It was the one nervous tell Arthur had never been able to get rid of. When he was really stressed, there was nothing he could do to keep his eye from spasming uncontrollably.

He looked down at his note pad full of scribbles and some doodles. He didn’t want Eames to figure him out. The guy knew too much about him already. “It’s been all over Twitter, man,” Ariadne chastised, not looking up from her phone where she was likely scrolling down her Instagram feed. Cobb and Yusuf were playing peek-a-boo with James and Mal was preoccupied with pointing out animals to Pippa on the page she was coloring. It was only Eames whose full attention was focused on him. Arthur stabbed a finger at his eye where it was palpitating, mentally kicking his own ass for having muted every form of Ben’s name and blocking the actual man’s Twitter account. Arthur loathed being taken off guard and having some warning upfront would have certainly given him the opportunity to put on his poker face should his ex ever come up in his working place. Instead his eye was twitching nervously and Arthur remembered with agony how, in an alcohol-induced moment of weakness, he had told Eames about Ben.

The thought made him bristle. Eames shouldn’t have that knowledge. He didn’t deserve it. Arthur hated feeling vulnerable. Ben had been the first person to hurt Arthur. He hadn’t been the last.

He pulled up Google and typed in Ben’s name. He didn’t have to scroll far until he found what he was searching for. He clicked the link and narrowed his eyes as he read the four point five Amazon-review for ‘#NotGonnaLie’. He snorted at the irony of it.

His eyes travelled to the right side of the screen to find a photo of Ben sitting there, staring back at him with those intelligent, clear blue eyes. He expected to feel a stab of pain but was shocked to realize that seeing Ben’s face didn’t seem to sting him anymore. “Huh,” he said to himself and looked back up, zoning back into the conversation that had somehow moved on to the subject of other hot academics slash writers. He caught Eames’ eye. Eames winked. It was one of Eames’s most irritating habits. Arthur steadfastly refused to acknowledge it as the turn on that it indeed, and very unfortunately, was for him. A tingle ran down Arthur’s spine and spread through his groin. ‘No wonder you’re over Ben,’ his inner voice mocked him. ‘Because now you’ve got another guy to pine for and be pathetic over.’

Arthur was not as over Ben as he had assumed. Seeing Ben live and in the flesh… that smile and the firm handshake, the glimpse of fondness in the man’s eyes. The self-assured line of his shoulders. The smooth, dark timbre of his voice. It all took Arthur’s breath away just like it used to.

“Ben,” Arthur said, unable to pull his hand away. Ben didn’t show the slightest indication that he planned to let go of Arthur’s hand any time soon, either.  
“Arthur,” he said. “I’ve missed you.” Arthur sucked in a breath and prayed to the heavens to offer him strength. “I want to say I can’t say the same about you, but...” He trailed off. Ben hummed, his eyes traveling over Arthur’s face and Arthur’s neck started to feel hot. 

“But?” Arthur had finally summoned back his mental faculties and pulled his hand away. He blindly grabbed for Ariadne’s shoulder and pushed her between them. “Have you met Ariadne?” Arthur cursed himself for needing the physical barrier of his co-worker between him and his ex. “She’ll help you out with any questions or requests you have. I am about to head out to a meeting but be assured that I’m leaving you in capable hands.”

Ben’s eyes were still sweeping over Arthur’s form appreciatively — he was ignoring Ariadne, who looked a little star-struck and a lot lecherous, completely — and it took him a moment to recognize that Arthur had just conveniently relegated him. He scowled. “I had been looking forward to catching up with you,” he said. “Sorry, work is calling. You should know how it is.” Ben’s eyes widened and Arthur grinned. He hadn’t even meant to acknowledge their past conflicts, but now that it had happened unintentionally, he couldn’t help but feel good about it. He shrugged and wrapped his fingers around Ariadne’s wrist, squeezing it. “You’ve got this,” he said to Ariadne and left Ben to her blatant objectification.

Arthur left the office half an hour later, but not to go to a meeting. Instead he took his laptop and settled into a corner booth at the coffee shop that was just enough out of the way of the office so it was unlikely to run into anyone he knew or worked with. Eames, of course, had always played against the rules. Arthur took a moment to look up from his screen and stretch his neck when he spotted the atrocious jacket Eames has proudly been sporting for the last couple of days. He listened as Eames ordered a concoction that sounded like it had barely anything to do with coffee. From his vantage point Arthur observed how Eames shamelessly flirted with the barista. She giggled. Arthur rolled his eyes, but managed to hold back the groan threatening to spill out of his throat. He didn’t want to draw Eames’s attention. He shook his head and went back to work.

Seconds later, Eames slid into the booth opposite Arthur. He pushed a muffin sat on a napkin over the table surface. “Hiding, darling?” Eames asked. “That’s not like you.” Arthur stared at the piece of bakery. He shrugged, pulled on the napkin and broke a piece off. “Has Ben charmed everyone in the studio yet?” he asked, chewing. “Ariadne may propose a steamy moment in the box room any moment now.” Eames offered and chuckled fondly. He picked up the muffin and took a huge bite out of it. It was, frankl, a disgusting sight. His crooked teeth full of brown muffin mush as he chewed, open-mouthed. “And after that, marriage.”

Arthur scoffed. “Good luck with _that_ ,” he said and took the rest of the muffin from Eames’s hand. He stuffed it into his mouth. It was overly sweet and in direct contrast with the sour taste of the memory currently playing through his mind. One of a sunny afternoon from years ago, Arthur on his knees in Ben’s office, a ring box held out in front of him. Arthur’s stomach plummeted when he remembered Ben’s face, almost a sneer. That disbelief at Arthur’s… well, Arthur’s naiveté. As if them spending the rest of their lives together was such a farfetched idea.

Eames took a sip of Arthur’s coffee. He grimaced at the taste of the brew gone cold. There was a line settled between his eyebrows. If Arthur didn’t know any better, he’d say it was a sign of worry. He blinked and offered Eames a grin, knowing that it didn’t quite sit right on his face.

“Mal is not a fan though,” Eames offered, his voice soft. “I left when she started to look like she was about to jump the guy. And not in a sexy way. Have you seen Mal’s claws? They’re red and evil...” Eames shuddered, made a show of it. “I wonder… does she know? About you and--”

“She doesn’t,” Arthur was quick to interrupt. “But then…” he sighed. “I didn’t tell her, or Cobb for that matter. But, she is Mal. She probably has her suspicions.” Arthur chuckled, his throat tight. “Unlike her husband she isn’t totally oblivious.”

“Mallory is a very intuitive and very scary woman.” Eames watched him and Arthur couldn’t help but look back. “And very protective of her friends, too.” Eames continued softly. “You probably didn’t help when you made yourself scarce as soon as the peacock set foot into the studio.” Arthur grinned tiredly. “Yeah...”

“I have to leave it to you, though. Ben’s a looker. Very charming, too. If you go for that whole high and mighty thing, that is.”  
“Can we stop talking about this?”  
“Of course. I’ve got to get back anyway.” Eames pushed himself up with his hands. He readjusted his scarf and scanned the room. He didn’t look at Arthur. “Anything you want me to ask the guy? Put him on the spot on live television. Get him a bit flustered, hm?”  
His gaze swung back to Eames. There was mischief, and an emotion Arthur couldn’t quite identify, glinting in his eyes. “Just do your job, Mr. Eames,” he said. “Sure, darling.” Eames saluted and then he was off. Arthur slumped back into his seat, pressing at his temple where a headache was building.

Arthur was blinking at the whiteboard in the meeting room, trying to make sense of what was written on it. As good as his first couple of weeks in the job had been going, as little sleep did Arthur get.

It was almost five thirty and he really needed to leave right then to arrive in the control room on time, but he couldn’t make his limbs move, no matter how loud his inner voice was screaming at him to _fucking get up and start walking_. Ariadne stumbledinto the room, looking around frantically. “There you are!” she yelled and seized his wrist. She pulled him out of the room, steering him the way to the control room. Nash met them in the hallway. “Oh great. You found this one. Now we just need to find the other guy.”  
“What other guy?” Arthur asked, yawning.  
“We can’t find Eames,” Nash explained. All three of them froze.  
“What do you mean you can’t find Eames? We just saw him a couple of minutes ago!” Ariadne cried, throwing up her hands.  
Nash shrugged. “He’s gone. Vanished. Nowhere to be found. Possibly in Narnia.”  
Ariadne glared at Nash, then checked her phone. She sent Arthur a worried look. “We’re on in three minutes.”  
Arthur took a deep breath, willing his brain to come online a little faster. He straightened his tie. “Nash, keep searching. You go get everything ready, Ari.” He started walking and turned around, walking backwards. “Tell Mal she might have to improvise. Tell Yusuf to get some, I don’t know, some fucking cat videos or something else going in case we need to fill screen time.”

“Did you just curse?” Ariadne asked, wonder in her voice. Arthur rolled his eyes and turned around. “I’ll find him,” he said instead of answering. “Fucking go!” Arthur set off running.  
Eames was not in his office, because Eames never did the expected. Arthur didn’t know why he even came in here in the first place but then something on the desk caught his attention. There was an envelope sticking out between two folders, as if hastily put there. Arthur did not have time to contemplate ethical reasons not to look what the envelope contained, so he ripped it out of its place and opened it, pulling out the documents.

They were divorce papers.

Arthur stared at them, shocked. He hadn’t known. He had had no clue Eames was... married? Eames was married. About to be un-married.

He was so bewildered at his discovery that it took him a second to notice there was someone else in the room with him. “Curious, darling?” There was an edge to Eames’s voice. Arthur’s shoulders strained in his suit jacket.  
“Eames! Fuck, sorry. But there’s no time.” Arthur let the papers drop and started pushing Eames out of the room. “We’re on in--”  
“Ten seconds!” Ariadne, leaning around the corner, offered shouting. “Fuck, guys. Get your butts moving!” She grabbed Eames’s hand and pulled him. Eames almost stumbled but Arthur pushed against his back and they ran through the building, shouting at people to “Get out of the way!”  
They arrived just in time and pushed Eames into the seat. The new make up artist — Arthur had got to learn her name, he thought ridiculously — stepped up to them and brushed lints off Eames’s shoulders. She ran a hand through his hair. Mal helped her out, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of Eames’s tight grip and then the countdown started.  
“Four, three, two,” someone counted.  
Arthur pulled the make up artist — Trina, he remembered now — out of the picture. They were on air. “Good morning, New York,” Mal greets, her smile especially bright, her eyes still a little wild. 

When Arthur looked back at Eames he expected him to be a little flustered at least, but Eames’s flirtatious smirk sat in its usual place. Professional as ever, Eames read off the teleprompter. “Today we cover the preparations for the Royal Wedding of the century, when Danish prince Eric is finally going to tie the knot with his beautiful bride Arielle. Yes, you heard that right. It’s a fairytale come true for the Danish royal house.”

Arthur fell back against the wall. He pushed down the hysterical laughter bubbling up his throat when he recognized the irony of today’s subject. Of course they were covering a wedding the day Eames received divorce papers. Eames… was getting divorced.

Considering that, Arthur frankly was impressed with Eames’s performance. In front of the cameras, Eames was laughing easily and congratulating the bride and groom, bantering a little with Mal and asking her which Disney prince her husband might look alike the most. Arthur had always appreciated Eames’s sheer competence when it came to his job.

“And we’re out,” Yusuf called, and Arthur startled away from his thoughts. Ariadne sent him an amused look. Arthur straightened his sleeves as everyone around him started wrapping up. Eames came right for him and Arthur straightened a little bit more. “I should’ve never--” He hastened to say. He cleared his throat. “Eames, this was completely… intrusive and unprofessional of me, and I apologize.” Eames regarded him. From this close Arthur could see the tired lines around Eames’s eyes. Somehow that was what threw Arthur. The fact that Eames was not unaffected by, well, by divorcing a person he used to be… in love with? Eames used to love someone. So much that he wanted to marry them. Maybe even still loved them. 

Ariadne pushed through between the two with a huff. When Arthur looked around. The room was suspiciously deserted. “I’m really sorry,” Arthur offered again, more quietly.  
Eames looked over Arthur’s shoulder and nodded. “Just… keep out of my stuff from now on. And I trust your discretion, darling. No one needs to know, yeah?”

“Of course,” Arthus was eager to agree. “My lips are sealed.” Eames breathed out. He lifted a hand to the space where Arthur’s neck meets his shoulder and squeezed it. “Go home, darling. Get some sleep. Without the sleep deprivation this might never have happened, hm?” Eames winked. The playfulness was back and with it Eames’s poker face. “As much as I adore your scowly face, it is quite getting out of hand.”  
“I don’t have a scowly face.” Arthur frowned. Eames raised an eyebrow.  
Arthur surpressed a yawn. Now that Eames had mentioned sleep, he felt the tiredness creep back into all of his bones all at once. “My bed misses me,” Arthur admitted through a yawn.  
“How could it not,” Eames threw over his shoulder as he turned to leave. “Take a cab, yeah? I don’t want you to hurt that pretty head of yours.”


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur had been accused of having “no imagination whatsoever” by a couple of people. His high school art teacher, one or two of his exes, and Eames. While Arthur agreed with them for the most part — he had always been the practical, fact-checking guy — he knew they were wrong. On a couple of occasions his said-to-be-non-existent imagination had even run away with him:

That one time he had had a high fever and had dreamt up Mister T spoonfeeding him soup.

The one and only time he had fallen in love, when he had been young and naive and had thought Ben would actually leave his wife for him, and then had had his heart crushed as he was kneeling on the hard floor of the academic’s office.

That morning after his second night with Eames, when in the early morning hours, somewhere between unconsciousness and awaking, his mind had played him a trick and fabricated the feel of lips touching softly against his brow, a thumb brushing up the line of his jaw.

Arthur loosened his tie and fell back against his apartment door. He was so fucking tired. He threw the keys into the bowl on the little rack he had placed by the door and yawned. The thirty or so steps that led into Arthur’s bedroom seemed like an impossible journey to take. He didn’t even waste a thought of going through his usual pre-sleep routine. He stumbled his way into his bedroom and collapsed. The covers were cold and cuddly and perfect. Arthur was out cold in the span of seconds. He dreamed of broad shoulders and stubble and crooked teeth, and a faceless woman.

Arthur had no illusions that he had any business knowing who Eames was married to. The thing was, that didn’t stop him from being super fucking curious. The reasons why were a dimension of self-reflection that Arthur was not amenable to pursue. 

Technically, he could get into the elevator and take the ride three floors down, saunter into their resident gossip lady Darleen’s office, and ask her what she knew — because somehow Darleen knew everything and on bad days that scared the fuck out of Arthur — but Arthur had principles and one of them was that he did not gossip. No really, he didn’t.

So of course he opted for taking Mal out for a late lunch after work and see what he could get out of her. Mal and Eames had a peculiar relationship but if Arthur was sure about one thing, it was that they cared about each other. Mal, being the wonder woman that she was, just had to know something.

He invited Mal to the small bistro around the corner of the studio. As Arthur scanned the menu, Mal watched him over the rim of her wine glass, her eyebrow raised. Arthur ordered a ginger ale and chicken broth. Mal’s eyebrow rose a little higher.

“Are you feeling under the weather, cheri? I noticed—”  
“Just some pre-emptive measures. I feel fine.”

Mal squinted her eyes. She muttered something under her breath.  
“Hm?” Arthur asked, absentmindedly.  
“Nothing. If you don’t feel sick, what else is up with you?”  
“Nothing is up,” Arthur huffed. “I just felt like taking a beautiful woman out to lunch.”

Mal pursed her lips. “What a charmer you are. Now, how do you American people say… cut out the bullshit and tell me what’s up? Hm?” She squeezed his hand on the table. Arthur watched her delicate hand with her perfect cuticles. He trusted Mal, but what he was about to ask her was going to perforate his carefully built-up defenses. Though he did not think Mal would use the knowledge against him, it had been hard for him to open up in a while. 

He was just not used to it anymore.

He looked up at her and met her patient gaze. “Do you, uh,” Arthur cleared his throat and sat up, sliding forward in his seat. “Do you remember that Christmas party you threw a couple of years ago?”  
Mal’s eyes widened a bit. “Oh. You mean when you and—”  
“Yes.”

Mal nodded. “Oui. Je me souviens.” Her thumb started stroking over the edge of his palm. Arthur’s eyes were drawn to the motion. “Go on,” Mal prompted softly.

“Well, uh, I woke up alone, as you know.” An ugly chuckle escaped him. Mal frowned in disapproval. She didn’t like her friends being belittled, not even when they were the ones to do it through self-deprecation. “Dom made you stay for breakfast.”

“Yeah.” The corners of Arthur’s lips curled up a little. It wasn’t a grin. “I just wanted to go home and take a long, hot shower and… forget the previous night, but no. Your husband insisted I have to try his — which turned out to be very average — pancakes.” Mal smiled and bit her lip.  
“What?”  
“You think he was oblivious, eh?”  
Arthur frowned. “What are you saying?”  
“Cheri, you looked like hell warmed over that morning. Dom and I would’ve been content to start where we had left off the previous night, if you know what I mean...” She winked. “But there you were...” She sighed and opened his palm with her finger and started tracing the lines of his palm. “Stepping into the kitchen on your way out with a smile so fake, so... painful looking. We couldn’t let you go like that. It would’ve been like putting a poor puppy out into the cold, harsh night, abandoned and all by itself.”

Arthur frowned. “I felt like shit,” he sighed.

“I know. And Eames and I had stern words about that.”  
“You what?” This was completely new information to Arthur.  
“I told him it wasn’t very gentlemanly to just leave before dawn.” Mal raised her chin.  
“You didn’t,” Arthur hissed.  
“Do you know me at all?” Mal challenged.

Arthur groaned. Mal scowled at him. He realized she was getting irritated with him, but he didn’t give a shit. Finding out about Mal’s… unwanted attempt to protect him was embarrassing and it had always been easier for Arthur to deal with anger rather than with humiliation.

Mal let go of his hand in a jerky move and took ahold of her glass of wine. She chugged down the last of the dark red liquid. They stared at each other over her glass. 

Their waiter had superb timing. They received their food and Mal asked for a refill of her drink. Arthur was almost too mad to eat, but the broth smelled delicious and his stomach began to rumble. He picked up the bread on the side and started eating.

After some time spent eating, Mal broke the silence. “Why don’t you just ask what you’ve been dying to ever since we sat down?” Her tone was reconciliatory. Arthur considered playing naive. “You saw his divorce papers, oui? You didn’t know.”

After a while Arthur nodded and met her eyes. “Do you know his…”  
“Wife,” Mal filled him in. “Non, never met her. She sounds like a piece of work though. Dom is very fortunate.”  
“That’s been pre-established,” Arthur said. It was an olive branch. Mal smiled and they were good. Arthur cleared his throat, played with his napkin. “So you know nothing?”  
“I know things, but they were said in confidence. Sorry. You know who you should ask for more information...”  
“I don’t want to talk to Doreen,” Arthur whined, falling back in his seat.  
Mal smacked his arm.  
“Mon Dieu,” she muttered, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. “I’m talking about Eames!”  
“Oh,” said Arthur.

_Arthur had been expecting to wake up alone, really he had been. But coming awake to an empty bed, the scent of Eames’s cologne still lingering… Arthur had been fooling himself. It still felt awful.  
The night had been great, and Arthur should have been grateful for that. It could’ve gone a lot worse._

_He buried his face into the sheets. There wasn’t even a note._

_He gave himself a couple of minutes to wallow in self-pity and swallow down the hurt. He sat up and told himself to suck it up and gathered together his clothes. He wanted to be home._

Arthur felt awful.

His whole body ached and he felt hot and cold and everything in between. Nauseous, he had woken up in the middle of the night and had barely made it to the bathroom. He’d been throwing up for what felt like every ten minutes since then. He was not proud of it but he half crawled, half stumbled his way from the bathroom to his bed, ripping his phone from his nightstand and fell on his back, pushing the speed dial for Ariadne.

He sent a big, silent _thank you_ up to the universe at large for the fact that he lived alone and no one would have to witness his pathetic state live and in action. Ariadne picked up after the second ring. “Whut. th’fuck.”  
“Hey,” Arthur croaked.  
“Arth’r?” Ariadne said, her voice rough with sleep. “What the fuck? It’s-- It’s three a.m.! I could’ve slept--”  
“Ariadne.” Arthur pressed his eyelids closed. He felt a little dizzy. He should probably get some water. Ariadne’s indignation annoyed him. 

There was a shuffling sound. “You okay, dude?” Her voice sounded a mix of confused and concerned. Normally Arthur would tell her to not call her “dude” but he just wanted this phone call to be over with. “I’m calling in sick,” he informed her. “I’ve been puking my guts out for half the night.”

“Ew! TMI!” Ariadne cried, sounding a lot more awake now. Stomach acid crawled its way up Arthur’s throat and he pushed a fist against his lips as if that could hold it back. 

“Anyway, the mighty Arthur gets sick? I can’t believe—”

Arthur did not drop the phone before he ran for the bathroom once again. He retched, holding the phone as far away as his exhausted limbs and sense of coordination let him. He breathed wetly over the toilet bowl, but nothing more came out.  
He put the phone back to his ear. “Fuck, sorry.”  
“I am so disgusted right now,” Ariadne told him, but there was a touch of concern in her voice. “You are so not coming into the office today.”  
“I am not coming into the office today,” Arthur confirmed. He lay slumped against his bathtub, feeling icky and sweaty and shivery. He closed his eyes against the churning in his stomach and willed the nausea to go away already, but to no avail. “Are you gonna be alright?”

Ariadne laughed. “We’ll survive one day without you, dude.”  
“I told you not to call me that,” he breathed.  
“Duuuuude.”  
Arthur’s head throbbed. “Shut up and tell me you’re gonna be alright so I can go back to feeling gross and pathetic.”  
“It’s gonna be fine, Arthur,” Ariadne said. “Go back to bed. Try to get some sleep.”  
“You have no idea how much I would love to do that,” Arthur sighed. He longed for his Mom to come and play nurse. He imagined her fingers stroking through his hair. Sometimes he really hated being a grown-up.  
“I think I do,” Ariadne said. Broadcasting reluctance with every spoken syllable, she asked, “You need me to come over?”  
Arthur chuckled. “Please stay away. We can’t have both producers throwing up their guts.”  
“Again! Ew! TMI! Do you not know what TMI is, boss? Maybe I should get you a dictio—”  
Arthur hung up.

Arthur did get back into bed around six and he even managed to get his laptop from the living room and watch the livestream of _The Morning Show With Mal And Eames_ , feeling mollifed when it went off without a hitch.  
He fell asleep around seven and woke up to an awfully shrill sound around eleven. He groaned when the sound didn’t stop despite his ignorance. He didn’t expect anyone but figured stupid Ariadne stupidly felt bad for staying away when Arthur was obviously not feeling well, so he crawled out of bed and grabbed the cardigan lying over the back of his couch as he zombie-shuffled his way to the front door.

He opened it, already talking. “I told you to stay aw-- Eames?”  
Eames greeted him with a two finger wave.  
“Are you crazy?” Arthur croaked, taking a couple of steps back. That made him feel dizzy and he braced himself against the wall. Eames seemed to interpret all this as his invitation to come inside. He closed the door behind him.  
“What are you _do_ ing,” Arthur whined.  
“I brought you toast and crackers and coke. You look quite awful, darling.”  
“Thanks,” Arthur sneered.  
He eyed the bag Eames was holding. Arthur’s stomach started churning at the thought of putting anything in it. Eames shuffled out of his shoes and eyed Arthur warily. “You’re a little green around the gills. It’s not your color.”

Arthur lifted a hand to stop Eames when he started approaching. “How do you even know where I live?” Eames made a chiding little sound. “Arthur,” he said. ”Please don’t insult me. I can open the white pages.”  
“I’m not in them. You asked Martha to look into my records.”  
“Martha is a right dearie,” Eames confirmed. He lifted a hand to Arthur’s forehead and Arthur was too stunned — and exhausted — to protest. He squinted up at the cold palm that, honestly, felt amazing against his sweaty skin.  
“Look,” Arthur said and Eames did, meeting Arthur’s eyes. Eames brushed a damp strand of hair out of Arthur’s face and Arthur took a while to remember what he was about to say. “I appreciate the thought but you shouldn’t have come. I can’t have one of my hosts be sick!”  
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I never get sick.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.  
“Trust me,” Eames whispered.  
He put the back of his hand against Arthur’s forehead again. “You’re burning up.” 

Arthur hummed. He never wanted Eames’s hand to stop doing the magic that it was currently doing. It felt really good and his headache… it was almost gone. He was also really tired and the wall behind him was cold, too.  
“Hey, hey now,” Eames said, and Arthur blinked his eyes open, finding Eames’s hand in a different place entirely. Eames was holding him up against the wall, his broad hands were gripping his hips. Arthur’s knees must have had given out, but he was too drained to care much about feeling embarrassed. 

“Let’s get you back into bed, darling,” Eames said and slid one of his hands — warm now, so perfectly warm — around Arthur’s waist and started guiding him back to the bed. Eames helped him lay down.  
“There’s a love.” Eames pulled the comforter all the way up to Arthur’s neck. His hand found Arthur’s hair again and the warm tingles as Eames stroked his head make Arthur’s eyes fall shut. He was asleep in the blink of an eye.

He half woke to a wet cloth swiping away the sweat gathered on his forehead some time later — “Shh, I’ve got you. Go back to your sweet dreams, hm?” — but sleep had a tight grip on him. When he woke up for good he felt a lot better. He checked the clock on his nightstand. It was seven p.m.. His throat was dry and so he shuffled out from beneath the covers, shivering as his sweaty skin met the fresh air. Eames had opened the window to let some air in, it seemed.

He made his way towards the kitchen and found Eames sitting on his sofa, watching the sports news. “You look better,” Eames greeted him.  
“I’m gross.” Arthur quipped, voice scratchy.  
Eames jumped up and ordered, “Sit.”  
“I need some water,” Arthur argued but plopped down on the sofa anyway. He was exhausted. “Just a second,” Eames said and left the room. He came back with toast and a big, cold glass of ginger ale. He handed Arthur the glass. Arthur sipped at it, then propped the glass against his chest. Eames chuckled. “You ought to drink a little more, darling,” he said softly. He put the toast on the end table and sat down on the armrest, feeling Arthur’s forehead. “You’re still hot.”

“Glad to know I’m not past my prime yet,” Arthur croaked and Eames’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Didn’t know physical indisposition brings out your humor, darling.” He sounded fond. 

Arthur couldn’t summon the energy to defend his everyday dry wit and Eames’s hand brushing the hair off his clammy forehead felt way too good. Eames’s other hand cupped Arthur’s neck and Arthur couldn’t suppress the moan escaping his throat when Eames squeezed lightly. He lifted the glass and drank, thankful his already blotchy cheeks would be a cover for the blush.

Arthur handed the glass back when Eames seemed satisfied with his liquid intake. He fell back against the backrest, though he ended up half pressed to Eames’s side. The feel of it against him side was too great to even think about moving away. 

Eames didn’t seem to feel averse, so Arthur closed his eyes as Eames resumed stroking his hair. “What are you doing here?” Arthur whispered sleepily.  
“Couldn’t leave my favorite producer to fend for himself now, could I?”  
“I’m y’r only producer,” Arthur argued through a yawn.  
“Now, now. Don’t let Ariadne hear you.”


	4. Chapter 4

_”Did anyone ever tell you how fucking gorgeous you are, darling?”  
Eames had stepped up behind Arthur. His breath had been tingling the back of Arthur’s neck and had sent a heady feeling down Arthur’s spine. Eames’s hands had spanned his hips and Arthur had pressed back against Eames’s chest, letting his head fall against Eames’s shoulder._

_Arthur had longed for this. He had turned around in the cradle of Eames’s arms and had crashed his lips against Eames’s. It had been a demanding kiss. When Eames had gentled the kiss, a moan had escaped Arthur. Eames had pulled back, breathing harshly and Arthur had opened his eyes. Eames’s pupils had been blown wide, his irises almost completely swallowed by black. Arthur had gotten hard just at the sight of that._

_“Let me take you to bed,” Eames had whispered between kisses, against Arthur’s neck and jaw. Arthur had shuddered at the low sound, at the words. ‘I shouldn’t,’ he had thought uselessly. He had pushed against Eames’s bulk and Eames had let him. Arthur had walked him backwards to the bed, nipping at Eames’s plump lower lip. He had caught Eames’s upper lip between the pads of his. Eames had tasted amazing._

_Arthur had spread his hands against Eames’s firm chest, pushing his fingertips into the hard muscles and reveling at the feel of it. Arthur had pushed and Eames had fallen on his back, bouncing a little. Arthur hadn’t waited any second longer to climb him, straddling his thighs._

_Eames had been breathing hard, his fingers twisted in the comforter, eyes wide. Arthur had loved that he was doing this to Eames. Eames’s hand had come up to cup Arthur’s neck and he had pulled him down, kissing him feverishly and rolling them over until his bulk pressed Arthur down into the mattress._

_Arthur had whined, his hips angling up against Eames. Delight had sparkled in Eames’s eyes. “Eames,” Arthur had demanded, starting i on the buttons on Eames’s shirt._

_“Shh, got you,” Eames had whispered as his hand brushed over Arthur’s crotch, briefly cupping him through his trousers. Arthur had bucked up against Eames’s hand and Eames had cursed under his breath._

_“Shut up,” Arthur had hissed and gotten his hand pushed out of the way when Eames’s had leaned down to conquer Arthur’s lips in another heated kiss. Arthur had grabbed Eames’s shoulders and let himself be taken. Eames’s hand had traveled down Arthur’s side, squeezing here and there as Arthur had pulled back to get some air back into his lungs. Eames had not wasted any more time and had gotten to work on Arthur’s zipper._

_Arthur had woken up cold. Again.  
_

Ariadne called at three a.m. and Arthur didn’t snap at her because he was already wide awake and also glad for the reprieve. Staring at your ceiling while contesting for the title of World’s Most Insomniac Person wasn’t as rewarding as one might think.

“Hey!” Ariadne squealed into the phone when Arthur answered it. He flinched and held it away, rubbing his ear. He tried again, more cautiously now. There was loud music in the background and he could barely make out what she was saying. Then she started screaming into the phone again. “‘thuuuuur! Hey! You should come here!” Arthur sat up. 

"Where the hell are you?” he asked. In vain. Ariadne was talking to someone in the background. He listened as she said “whoops”, then she was back on the phone. “Hey! You there?”

“Still here,” Arthur confirmed. He sounded a little exasperated but Ariadne wouldn't know. She was drunk. Arthur was not a fan of drunk people.  
“Eames is missing youuuuu,” Ariadne sing-songed and then broke out into laughter. Arthur heard someone in the background hiss something, but he couldn't make out what was being said. He thought it was Eames, though.  
“We’re at— What’s this place called, Eamesy? Oh right. We’re at this new club called North West, you know? Like the Kardashian baby! Anyway, you should—”

“Arthur?” Eames had grabbed the phone. “I apologize for Ariadne. She is very sorry for waking you.” Eames was lulling a little. “She doesn’t know you need your beauty sleep to look as—” Eames hiccuped. Arthur's lips curved in fondness. “As fabulous as you always do.”

“Youths,” Arthur sighed dramatically and Eames's answering laugh sounded bright and easy. The music in the background had gotten more quiet and then it was almost gone. “Now that you’re awake, though…" Eames trailed off. Arthur didn't move. His sheets were prone to rustling. "Ah, you know what. Nevermind. Go back to sleep, darling.”

“I’m kind of wide awake.” Arthur rushed to say. Then he bit his lip and pressed a hand against his chest. His heart was trying to beat its way out of his ribcage.  
“How do you feel about breakfast?” Eames sounded hesitant.  
“It’s three a.m.,” Arthur said, logically, then curses himself.  
“Arthur.”  
“Yes?”  
“Can I— Can I come by?”  
Arthur was staring at his ceiling. He was exhausted and his defenses were down and he could come up with a million better excuses if he tried. He said “yes.”  
“Brilliant. See you in a bit, love.” Eames hung up. Arthur blindly placed his phone on his nightstand, stared some more at the dark ceiling. Then he jumped out of bed to go take a shower.

Arthur was extra thorough as he showered and he didn’t think about the why. He rubbed his hair dry and considered drowning it in gel as usual. It was the middle of the night and he didn’t feel like putting up the effort and so he didn’t. He also suspended the idea of getting into day clothes, opting instead for his favorite pair of sweatpants and a white V-neck. He barely had time to check himself over in the mirror before Eames rung the bell. Arthur took a deep breath and buzzes him in.

He left the door open and went into the kitchen and pretended to start on breakfast because that was their alibi.  
“Leaving the door open? What if I was a burglar?”  
“Who says you aren’t,” Arthur teased. He threw a look over his shoulder from where he was pouring orange juice into a glass on the counter. Eames looked pleasantly disheveled, his skin flushed and his grin content. Arthur told his dick to calm the fuck down and turned back to his task. He heard the silent footfalls on the floor and the anticipation of awaiting Eames stepping up to his back was torture. “Also, you have a Glock in your kitchen drawers,” Eames said quietly.

“That, too.” A gust of breath tingled the back of Arthur's neck. Eames’s lips brushed against the skin of Arthur’s shoulder and a shiver stole down Arthur’s spine. Eames’s fingers spanned across Arthur’s hips, pushing up Arthur’s shirt a little to reach the skin. Arthur leaned back against the warm wall of Eames’s body and his eyes fluttered shut as Eames pushed his chin over Arthur’s shoulder to press a kiss to the side of Arthur’s neck. Arthur tilted his head to give Eames’s lips better access and when Eames latched them onto that vulnerable spot near Arthur’s hairline, Arthur let out a slow, long breath and was instantly aware that he couldn’t— He could not do this.

“Eames,” he said urgently. Eames froze.  
“Arthur?”  
“I can’t.” His body had turned rigid.  
“Oh,” Eames breathed. His hands squeezed Arthur's hips as if they were undecided if they should leave them. “No that’s. Fine.” 

Eames took a step back. Arthur pressed his eyes closed as the cold air meets his back. “I’m sorry,” he said faintly.  
“Hey, no. Don’t worry, darling.” Eames's voice sounded a bit strained. Arthur turned around and sought out Eames’s gaze. Their eyes met. “I shouldn’t have invited you here," Arthur said. "But I just can’t do this anymore.” These last words were just a whisper.

Eames perked up. “Anymore?”  
“Why didn’t you tell me,” Arthur asked instead of answering.  
“Tell you?”  
Arthur’s hackles rose. Eames needed to get on track. “I told you, Eames. I told you about… about..."  
“Arthur, what in all hell are you on about?”  
“You’re married!” Arthur hissed. “You were married! When we fucked! When I told you about Ben! Do you know how that makes me feel?” Arthur’s voice had risen with each word and Eames’s eyes had widened with each new level of volume achieved. The silence that ensued in the wake of Arthur's outburst was deafening. Blood was rushing through Arthur's ears as he watched Eames's teint lose its tipsy rosiness. 

Eames cleared his throat. He said, “I realize it wasn't the best etiquette."  
"No shit."  
"It's not as easy as you think, Arthur. You don’t know…” Eames trailed off.  
“I don’t know what?”  
Eames shook his head. “Look," he said. "I came here for a good time. I didn't come here to be interrogated. I think I should leave.”

“In fact, I’m leaving.” Eames turned away.

“Yeah, sure. Leave. You’re really good at that.” Arthur's voice broke a little and he hated that. It stopped Eames in his tracks. He opened his mouth and Arthur held his breath. But he could see the moment Eames decided against saying any more. The moment he decided Arthur was not worth the explanation, if there even was one. 

“Good night, darling,” Eames said, and left


	5. Chapter 5

After everything occuring in the previous night, and the heartbreak at four a.m. in the morning, Arthur wouldn’t have thought he’d be able to fall asleep. He was contradicted. He woke up some time around midday and he blamed his exhaustion. The physical one, as well as the mental exertion that came with embarrassing himself in front of Eames.

He stared at the ceiling for some time but soon got sick of the sight. He got up, put on his running shoes and started running his usual route along the lakefront. Everyone was enjoying the sun, sitting in the grass. There were couples everywhere.

Arthur sped up.

His legs started hurting as he pushed along, but the physical ache was a pleasant distraction. His mind was a scramble as he went back over all those years, all the times he had met Eames, and searched for any hints he might have overseen. Anything that could have told him that he had been fucking a married man.

There was nothing.

He stopped at the waterfront and he breathed harshly, trying to get air back into his lungs. His eyes caught the sun glare reflecting off the lake’s surface.

_“You’re so fastidious. My mother would almost approve. If you had less stubble, that is.”_  
_“Stubble?” Arthur frowned. He lifted a hand to his chin. His skin was still smooth. “I shaved just a couple of hours ago.”_  
_Eames just grinned. It wasn’t a real smile._

“Huh,” Arthur said out loud. The teenage couple sitting close to him sent him a judgy look. Arthur glared back.

_“Wow.”_  
_“What?”_  
_“I didn’t know you could dress properly like that.”_  
_“...Properly?”_  
_“That Windsor is perfect. Who knotted it for you?”_  
_Eames grinned, his teeth gleaming. “I did, darling.”_  
_“No way.”_  
_“What? You think I can’t tie a simple Windsor?”_  
_Arthur raised his eyebrow._  
_“Oh, darling. I am offended.” Eames smirked. "How did Whitman say it? ...Ah yes. I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes, ” he recited with a magnanimous wave of his hand. Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re such a pretentious motherfucker.”_  
_“You love my pretentiousness.”_  
_“Ugh. Get out of my face.”_  
_“I could get all into your — ”_  
_“Don’t finish that sentence.”_

Arthur had started walking. The wind blew in his face and cooled his hot face a little. A trail of sweat ran down his back and tickled him. He shuddered.

There was something about those two conversations that sparked a thought. But could it be that? He was overanalyzing, for sure.

But then other memories came up. That one time Dom had called Eames “your lordship” and Eames’s eyebrows had drawn together for a second before he had laughed it off.  
The news of same-sex marriage being legalized in the UK and Mal joking that now Arthur could move to Britain and marry Prince Harry, if he wanted to. Arthur had considered it, playing it up and everyone had laughed when he came to the conclusion that he definitely had too little patience with people to be a good fit to become Prince Consort. Everyone had laughed.

Everyone except Eames.


	6. Chapter 6

Eames stood in his living room. He was looking out of the window, the city beneath him busy with tourists and businessmen hurrying from one spot to another. He didn’t really notice them. He was absorbed in thought. On top of the grand piano behind him divorce papers were spread out, ready to be signed. 

Earlier, he had unfolded the papers, pen ready in his hand, but when he touched its tip to the paper, he couldn’t do it. Freedom lay right there in front of him. Freedom from his past, freedom from his… own mental repression. 

He had made himself a drink instead. 

What he had wished for for so long, what he had worked towards, especially in the last couple of years, what he had lain awake thinking about for long, lonely nights... he was, apparently, not ready for. 

He cursed his brain. He cursed his heart, cowering away from taking responsibility. He just cursed. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

Joline had finally agreed to go forward with the divorce. She had met a man who had made her finally want a new start, a thing Eames had longed for all along, but was hindered by his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s insistence that their good reputation, their good name, would take a beating should they part ways officially. 

Eames didn’t bloody care. 

It had taken Maxwell to come along, sweeping her off her feet. Maxwell seemed like a good lad, someone who could give Joline some happiness and the loving family Eames could never provide for her. Eames wanted that for her. Even though they had had their differences. Even though they’ve fought wars, some cruel, some more for amusement than anything else, he felt fond of the woman. 

And now, he couldn’t do it. Because he was a bloody coward.

He took another drink.


	7. Chapter 7

Eames woke up, mouth desert-dry, back aching, world too bright, confined… somewhere. 

Eames woke up on the hardwood floor beneath his grand piano. He could make out the noble brand name when he squinted his eyes. Squinting was not a good plan when your head was throbbing.

He groaned as he lifted up to his elbow’s, trying to remember what had moved him to make camp down there. His headache helped him come to the conclusion that it must have been the overdose of alcohol.

Eames crawled out from beneath the piano, releasing pitiful sounds as his body revolted against the movement, and pulled himself up by its side only to come face to face with the dreaded divorce papers still spread out, yet scattered, over the surface of the Steinway. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he kept his eyes closed. He didn’t open his eyes for quite a while yet. Nausea was rolling through his stomach, both from too much alcohol and the remembered shame at his cowardice. 

He made himself straighten his back and turned around, opening his eyes and immediately regretting it as the world went lopsided. He cast out his hands to steady himself on his trusted instrument and looked down, and froze. 

There it was. His signature. 

He scrambled for the papers, checking each page of the document and every single one held his slanted, scribbled name, even the ones who hadn’t needed it at all. A laugh bubbled up his throat and came out as a sound that made relief resound off his walls. 

Again a sliver of shame curled in his stomach but it was stomped down by the feeling of absolute comfort and happiness that his realization of freedom spread through his body, nausea and headache forgotten in an instant. 

He pushed the single papers of the document together so they made up one precise pile of paper and took a moment to say goodbye to his old life. Then he hurried to the side table his phone was laying on, laughing freely, almost giddily as he opened up his contacts and hit call.


End file.
